


The Starlit Stream

by oliverdalstonbrowning



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort, Drabble, F/F, Femslash, One Shot, Sapphic, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 03:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8561026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/pseuds/oliverdalstonbrowning
Summary: The river finds Mithrellas and takes her home to Nimrodel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has been swirling around my brain for a while now. I love this pairing, however small they might be, and I wanted to explore their characters in a different setting. I also experimented with different prose. I hope you like it!

 

Little could be said of Nimrodel when she slept by the river. Nestled at the base of a willow tree, she passed into memory, sleeping long and unchanging. Her thoughts wandered dreamlessly for years at a time, dwelling upon those she loved and missed and cherished, like kind Amroth who cared for her, and was her friend, even if he had always asked too much of her. And gentle Mithrellas whose touches she craved more than her river home in Lórinand; more than even the brightest star from the golden trees that blossomed there.

    When Nimrodel woke, two decades had passed, though she did not know it. She stretched, blinking tiredly, and crawled to the river bank to drink from her hands. Then she removed her dress and bathed in the water, washing away the years of sleep and seasons. Autumn leaves were caught in her silver hair, and patches of dirt and moss had spread and stuck through her fingers and toes and behind her knees and ears, fused to her skin like tree sap or beeswax. She found a large rock and soon her white skin was pink and clean again. She shivered in the cold water, shielded from the sun by the canopy of trees, enclosing her from the rest of the world, and letting her be peaceful.

    She climbed out and, naked to dry, roamed the trees some feet away for fruit to eat. It was summer, and the boughs were ripe with figs and peaches and she collected them in her dress to take back to the river. She hummed to herself, old songs finding their way back to her. She slipped on her dress again and sat in the grass by the water, which reminded her of the river back home.

    Absently she thought of Mithrellas, words sweet like peaches and skin like rich earth. Nimrodel missed her, very deeply, and when she told the river, it heard her.

    It carried her message all the way to the southern shore, where it met the sea and its many waves. They splashed near the feet of an Elven woman, who walked the sand on the beach where she lived, a baby in her arms and a young boy at her grievance, running here and there and out of her sight just to be cheeky.

    Mithrellas heard the message on the wind, swept over on the waves. She smiled at the thought of Nimrodel, peach juice down her chin, catching it on her fingers, her skin so fair Mithrellas compared her to snowdrops or starlight. She had often wondered what happened to laughing Nimrodel, with her eyes like fire stars. Now she knew, as the river told her, and she was selfishly glad Nimrodel had not found her way West. Mithrellas had seen Amroth waiting for Nimrodel, his ship ever-patient in Edhellond, until the storm came and vanquished him. Poor Amroth, thought Mithrellas, as she dug her toes into the sand. Always so hopeful Nimrodel would find him. But it wasn’t Nimrodel’s fault. The water had explained. She had been sleeping.

    Mithrellas took her baby and her son back to the palace in Belfalas, her plight now desperate, for she would be stopped if she was caught. She packed a bag with clothes and food and water, and secured a sword to a belt around her skirts.

    “Where are you going, mama?”

    Innocent Galador, who was not an Elf, nor a Man, and spoke in that brusque and confusing common tongue. Mithrellas knelt before him, stroking back his dark hair and tucking it behind his ear, which was pointed, but not in the same, elongated way Mithrellas privately thought it ought to be.

    “Don’t worry about your _naneth_ , little one,” she said, kissing his brow, “You will not see me again.”

    “Why?”

    “Someone is waiting for me, and I must go.”

    “Can I not come with you?” asked Galador, his father’s eyes glistening back at Mithrellas. She regrets, quietly, the little boy’s lineage. He would have better made a Silvan Elf than a strange boy at the beginning of a mixed blood line, destined to be torn between two paths.

    “You are to be King someday,” she said, getting to her feet again. “Look after your little sister, won’t you?”

    Gilmith stirred in her cot and, fussily, her brother adjusted her blankets. Mithrellas kissed them both before she disappeared into the mountains, never to return.

 

    She walked three days, under star and moon and warm, summer sun. At the Serni River where the mountains parted, Mithrellas bought a boat and let the river guide her the rest of the way. She relished her new freedom, trailing her hand through the cool rushing water as it travelled downstream and to its adjoining sister. In Belfalas Mithrellas’ life had been good, but two decades had been enough to weary and depress her. The strange Men of Gondor stared at her and whispered, spreading rumours of the King's Elven wife who could not speak their tongue. How rude, she had always thought, of them to expect her to yield to their primitive and ungainly ways. She was an Elf, and she belong to the trees and mountains and streams, not to tall buildings and rough-hewn gowns and food slain with injustice. She longed for a reason to leave and finally, she had one; a reason to conquer all others.

    She spent a fifth day gliding down the Gilrain, admiring its rocky banks and scattered forest leading up to the mountains. Mithrellas basked in the sun and dozed when clouds crept by to offer her reprieve. Sometimes she stopped and rowed the boat ashore to find fruit and tasty mushrooms to eat. She thought of Nimrodel, who hated mushrooms, but liked them when Mithrellas cooked them. How silly, to remember something so trivial, and how important it felt as Mithrellas unsheathed her dagger and cut the stems of a cluster at the base of a tree.

    She found Nimrodel at twilight, singing in a pool of sunset that crept through the canopy. She lived where the river curved into a small lake, surrounded by a copse of trees. An evergreen grotto. A willow tree drooped there, its long, leafy boughs crafting ripples into the water.

    Mithrellas hesitated in her boat, watching the woman on the bank, unsure at first if it truly was Nimrodel, for it had been so many years. But Mithrellas never could forget that bolt of silver hair like silk, so long it nearly skirted the ground, and no sooner could she forget that soft, halcyon singing that permeated the river even as it faltered, and then stopped. At first, Nimrodel did not recognise the stranger in the boat, staring in awe and splendour, but when she did she cried aloud and fell in the water.

   She swam the length to the boat, unmindful of the cold or wet. When she climbed in, she nearly toppled them over, but Mithrellas held fast her weight, thinking momentarily of the books she had brought with her, and then she took the other woman in her arms to steady them. Nimrodel’s hand was at her breast, and tears were in her eyes.

    They kept to the boat long after it got dark, with a lantern at the bow to light one another. Mithrellas told Nimrodel of her short time in Belfalas, as Queen and King’s wife, and of her children, bright and happy, whom she was sorry to say goodbye to. It was a mercy to be jabbering in her native tongue again; twenty years and not a word of Silvan and Mithrellas had quite forgotten some of her own language.

    “You should have brought them along,” said Nimrodel, when Mithrellas spoke of Galador and Gilmith.

    “They belong with Men,” said Mithrellas.

    “And where do you belong?”

    “With you, my lady,” said Mithrellas, rubbing her cheek of the blush that blossomed there, though Nimrodel did not see it in the dim.

    “I missed you very dearly, even in my sleep. Lovely Mithrellas, I dreamed of you. You, who would follow me anywhere if I called.”

    Mithrellas buried her face in her hands, rather embarrassed. What Nimrodel said was true as the moon, but Mithrellas did not dare confess the love that such devotion was borne of, for to love Nimrodel was to love the purest star, and such a thing could never love an insignificant thing like her in return.

    “What a silly hairstyle you have,” Nimrodel was saying, tucking stray tendrils of Mithrellas’ hair behind her ear.

    “It is a fashion of Queens, so I’m told,” Mithrellas explained.

    “Here, let it out. You needn’t abide by their nonsense anymore.”

    Nimrodel set about removing the pins and clips from Mithrellas’ hair, of which there were many, for hair such as hers could not by tamed by a mere brush or barrette. Nimrodel found a comb in the rucksack, squashed among the books. She brushed Mithrellas’ hair, beginning at the ends, just as Mithrellas had shown her. She had always been insistent on the two of them sharing tasks, even though it had always been the duty of Mithrellas to tend to her Lady, and then to herself. Nimrodel had never taken to the rules set upon her by her birth, and in the moonlit forest on the water, she seemed to have forgotten them entirely.

    “And what are these dreadful things?” she exclaimed when she was done brushing. Her supple fingers danced along the rings pierced to Mithrellas’ ears, gold earrings glistening copper in the lantern light.

    Mithrellas laughed. “Earrings. It was my own choice.”

    “But you got the idea from Men, did you not? Oh, they must have hurt! To piece your skin, willing or not!” She sounded scandalised.

    “The Men saw it first on the Sindar when they came. I like them,” said Mithrellas, running a finger across the earrings, making them sparkle.

    Nimrodel shook her head, but she was smiling, bright and golden, her pale eyes reflecting the moon. “Are you hungry? We ought to eat something.”

    They rowed to the riparian and tethered the little boat to a tree. Mithrellas took her rucksack and rummaged through it, looking for her pot and cups and tin of tea. She pushed her hair back, but not impatiently as she once might have done. It was pleasant to have it milling about her face once more. Wild and free, just like herself.

    Nimrodel came tottering over, her white dress dancing around her calves, the same one she had been wearing when Mithrellas had lost her. She sat down and laid out a makeshift basket of peaches, figs, oranges, and apples. Mithrellas raised an eyebrow.

    “Have you nothing else? No vegetables?”

    Nimrodel pouted. “Vegetables, bah! Oh no, are those mushrooms?”

    Mithrellas pulled out the bag of mushrooms, biting back a smile. “There ought to be radishes and choko around. You didn’t think to look?”

    “Peaches serve me just as well as anything else,” said Nimrodel, and she promptly bit into one, the juice trickling down her chin.

    “Tomorrow we can forage for more to eat. We cannot survive on figs and peaches,” said Mithrellas. “Have you any wood for a fire?”

    “No,” said Nimrodel, sucking on the peach stone. “I haven’t the need to cook.”

    “It is lucky you slept all these years. Varda only knows how you might have survived without me.”

    “That’s why I called you,” said Nimrodel. “Varda need not worry if she knows you are with me."

   

    They slept beneath the willow tree that night, wrapped warm in blankets Mithrellas had brought. Nimrodel relished the luxuries of her backpack: books, wine, sweets, and tea. She had been so long without even simple pleasures that objects such as cups and combs were almost foreign to her and she was overexcited by it all.

    “You have spent too long in the trees,” Mithrellas teased.

    “There is no other way for me to be,” Nimrodel rebuked. In the grass, she turned over onto her stomach, resting her silver head in the crook of her elbow. “Or perhaps you have been too much exposed to Men.”

    “I had little choice in the matter,” Mithrellas said. “I was lost in the woods and Imrazôr was kind to me.”

    “What kind of Elf gets lost in the woods?”

    Mithrellas frowned. “Is it so unlikely? You mean to tell me you know exactly where we are?”

    Nimrodel pursed her lips, like the spoiled Elfling Mithrellas knew from childhood, and she chose not to reply. “Tell me more of your husband,” she said instead.

    “Less of a husband than another child to take care of,” Mithrellas grumbled. “He was a terrible nuisance, always asking for advice and wanting to know of Elvish ways, as though such things might help him win his little war. I told him we have no such ways that can be offered to Men.”

    “I daresay he didn’t like that,” said Nimrodel with a grin.

    “No, he didn’t.”

    Abruptly, Nimrodel’s face fell quite serious, the glint in her eyes fading. “Was he cruel to you?”

    Mithrellas shook her head against the grass. “No. I said he was kind. I loved him.”

    “Had I known you were so beloved, I would not have sent for you. And even if I had, you needn’t have answered. You should not have come here, dear Mithrellas. I feel bad now to have taken you away from any happiness.”

    But Mithrellas only smiled. “I came because I wanted to. I was waiting for you.”

    Nimrodel’s broke into a smile of her own at this, her eyes alight again. Mithrellas thought sometimes that the moon and stars must hide their faces in shame to see Nimrodel’s silver light, brighter than all the others.

    They slept beneath the willow tree, wrapped in warm blankets. Mithrellas was glad, right in her heart, to be outside again, sleeping amongst the boughs and leaves. A forest, no matter how small or far away, would always be home to her, and if Nimrodel was there, she would never leave it.

 

    It was nearly noon when they woke. Mithrellas had never been permitted to sleep so late in Belfalas. She stretched, bathing in the sun, smiling at her freedom again - not that she had ever been trapped in the palace with her husband, but she was happier here, with Nimrodel, feeling like herself again.

    Mithrellas folded her blanket and, as Nimrodel continued to sleep, she undressed and waded into the shallows of the river to bathe, taking a brush and piece of soap with her. It was briskly cold, her skin scattered in an instant with goosebumps. Her teeth-chattering woke Nimrodel, who emerged from her blanket looking groggy and woebegone, her gossamer hair tangled with evidence of good rest.

    She shuffled to the riparian, rubbing her eyes sleepily. Her hair trailed the leaves and stray twigs because of her poor morning posture.

    “What’s that?” she asked.

    “What?” said Mithrellas, ducking her body quickly into the water, for it was unbecoming to be naked in front of a lady.

    “The stone in your hand,” said Nimrodel, still rubbing her eyes and apparently unbothered by Mithrellas’ nakedness.

    Mithrellas lifted the soap out of the water. “Not a stone; it is soap.”

    “Soap?”

    Mithrellas laughed, even though it was rude; she couldn’t help it. “It cleans you.”

    “Then why are you in the water?” Nimrodel demanded, now thoroughly confused.

    “You use it with water; it cleans you better.”

    “Nonsense,” said Nimrodel, yawning impressively, her arms stretched high over her head, exposing the soft, tender skin and hairs of her underarms.

    “You may try it when I’m done,” said Mithrellas.

    But Nimrodel was already unfastening her dress. She splashed into the river and dived under, evidently unconcerned by the cold. She emerged, spitting water like a fish, her hair floating around her like sea foam. Mithrellas began to excuse herself, leaving the soap and brush floating behind her.

    “Don’t be modest, Mithrellas,” Nimrodel admonished. “You are not my maid here; you are my friend.”

    Mithrellas hesitated, unsure of what to make of this statement. She had always loved Nimrodel, but it was still above her station for them even to be friends. Silvan both they may be, Mithrellas had been born to serve, despite her marriage to a King. She struggled to relinquish the grip on her old habits, yet Nimrodel was asking her to, and she would do anything Nimrodel asked of her.

    She went back, treading the water while Nimrodel examined the brush and soap. She stood straight, her breasts exposed, her shoulders painted with water droplets and her hair sticking to her neck and back.

    “You rub it on yourself,” Mithrellas said, still finding Nimrodel’s innocence quite amusing.

    “It smells lovely,” Nimrodel remarked. She lathered the soap on her skin until she was covered in it, giggling and hugging herself. “It’s lovely.”

    They finished bathing and shivering in the river, their toes curled about the rocks in the shallows. Mithrellas dug out a clean dress from her rucksack, trembling as she dried naked in the dewy morning, wishing she was less self-conscious. Beneath the canopy, it stayed cool and damp as summer failed to breach the safety of the trees in the early parts of the day.

    “Have you a dress in there for me?” Nimrodel asked, retrieving a peach from her basket and squelching into it.

    “Of course,” said Mithrellas, tugging out a second one. She held them both up. “Which would you like?”

    “Is this what you wore everyday?” Nimrodel said, eyeing them critically.

    “I think they’re pretty,” said Mithrellas defensively.

    “Oh, they are pretty enough, but awfully warm for summer.”

    “We can unstitch the underskirts. I have scissors in my bag.”

    “You have everything in your bag.”

    They sat under the willow tree on a blanket, sharing a small pair of scissors to unstitch the two layers of cotton beneath the muslin. Mithrellas was careful to keep the shape of her dress, but Nimrodel all but butchered hers, ripping out the ivory in the bodice and tearing out the lace and frills. Mithrellas watched with faint grief as one of her favourite dresses was dismembered. Nimrodel used a scrap of lace to wind her hair around, fastening it at the base of her neck with a pin to keep it out of the way while she worked.

    “There!” she said happily, shaking out the frock, which was a soft shade of lilac and would looked very becoming on her with her silver hair.

    Nimrodel pulled the dress on over her head, setting free a few strands of her hair in the process. She brushed out the wrinkles and grinned, twirling gracefully. “I have few times seen my reflection, but I daresay I look rather fetching even with no glass to see.”

    Tugging out the final layer from her dress, Mithrellas smiled. It was true; Nimrodel was beautiful. She was the splendour of the Valar, and of all their stars, and Mithrellas felt honoured to look upon her.   

 

    There was no longer a concept of time for the two Elven women in the glade. Days passed in only the rising and setting of the sun, each one the same as the last, caught up in warmth and flowers and unsurpassable content. They spent hours by the river, swimming and dancing, their laughter crystallised in a summertime that never ended.

    At night, they watched the stars through the gaps in the canopy, sharing the stories of the constellations of old; stories they had heard a thousand times, and would hear a thousand more if just to listen to the sound of each other’s voices.

    Weeks had passed, or maybe years, Mithrellas neither knew nor cared. She lay against the willow tree, braiding Nimrodel’s hair. Her belly was full of fruit and water, and her heart was aglow with all the joy in the world.

    “Mithrellas.” Nimrodel turned her head, and the braid fell from Mithrellas’ hands, shimmering like stardust through her fingers. Nimrodel took it and tied it off, pulling it over her shoulder. She looked imploringly at Mithrellas, her eyes wide and wonderful. “Mithrellas, do you miss your husband?”

    Mithrellas blinked several times, still recovering from her daze. She thought of her husband, and her two children, curious as to how old they were now. It was difficult to tell how much time had passed. It was no surprise Nimrodel had slept here for as long as she did.

    “No,” she finally said. “I’m sure they do not miss me, so why should I miss them?”

    “But that isn’t fair,” said Nimrodel softly. “I still feel awful to have taken you away.”

    “I waited for you,” said Mithrellas.

    Nimrodel smiled sadly. “Why?”

    “Because I love you.”

    Mithrellas did not mean to say it the way she did – too informally, her tongue still not used to the old Silvan speech – but she already did not regret it. The expression on Nimrodel’s face told her she did not need to.

    “Do you mean it?”

    “Yes.”

    Nimrodel looked close to tears. “When I knew you to be married – and with children, no less – I thought there was no hope left for me to have you. And I, who foolishly saved myself for you, only to sleep for years and years...”

    Mithrellas furrowed her brow at this, sitting up straight. “What are you saying?”

    Nimrodel drew back, biting her lip, almost coy, but mostly embarrassed. She sat on the heels of her feet, her braided hair dusted with starlight.

    “Won’t you forgive me, for deserting you so? I didn’t mean to, for I loved you more than anyone.”

    “But – but what about Amroth?” spluttered Mithrellas.

    “Oh, that idiot! I didn’t know he was waiting for me! When we were separated, I tried searching for you. I wanted us to all sail together, but then I came here and fell asleep, and when I woke the river – the river told me he was gone, and that there was no presence of you in these hills or trees.”

    Nimrodel buried her face in her hands, but she did not weep, not really. Mithrellas took her in her arms and squeezed her tightly.

    “Do not trouble yourself of Amroth. He takes the longer road home, but he will reach it before the end. Let it be only us; let it be enough. Fate has been unkind to us for too long.”

    Nimrodel peered up in Mithrellas’ arms, her eyes wide and overbright. But she smiled, blinking away the tears. “You forgive me, don’t you?”

    “Of course. No harm came to either of us, so there is nothing to forgive.” Mithrellas pressed her lips to Nimrodel’s brow, tasting the cool river on her skin. “We are together now, and that is all that is important.”

    “Will you stay here with me forever? Isn’t it just like Lórinand, Mithrellas? Isn’t the river just like home?”

    Mithrellas nodded. “We’ll stay. Let us be forgotten here.”

    They rested in the crook of the willow tree, the long branches forming their haven. In the wide world, a song was sung of Nimrodel, remembered always as the lost maiden from Lothlorien, adored by Amroth who waited for her. But as the ages of Elves and great Men passed, ever did Nimrodel linger in Middle Earth, accompanied by Mithrellas, who loved her, and was well beloved too.

   

 


End file.
